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		<header>
			<h1>A slower bike</h1>
			<p>Day 00892: <time>Tuesday, 2017 August 15</time></p>
		</header>
<section id="general">
	<h2>General news</h2>
	<p>
		I woke up in the middle of the night, again unable to move my arm.
		Normally, I use my other arm to shake my paralysed arm in an attempt to get my arm working again faster.
		This time, I tried an experiment: I didn&apos;t do that.
		I tried letting my arm start working on its own.
		It seems the shaking doesn&apos;t actually speed things up.
		If anything, it might slow down the process, though that could just be perception.
		There&apos;s no reason for me to shake my paralysed arm; it doesn&apos;t help.
	</p>
	<p>
		I woke up again, way too early.
		This time, it was too light out for me to get back to sleep.
		Yesterday, I didn&apos;t think the bike-jacking hit me very hard.
		I was surprised by how calm I was by the whole ordeal.
		I literally still had a song stuck in my head and was bobbing along to it.
		I think it actually hit me harder than I&apos;m aware though, and it&apos;s making me restless.
	</p>
	<p>
		Finding a bike that had both wheels and working breaks was a challenge.
		There were probably about fifty bike frames, and I managed to find two of them that were actually functional bicycles.
		I chose the one that seemed to be in better shape, but as the tires were flat, I couldn&apos;t test it out until after I bought it for $20 <abbr title="United States Dollars">USD</abbr>.
		The bike is very slow, and it limps.
		It&apos;s hard to peddle, and the positioning of the seat hurts my testicles.
		I suppose it&apos;s probably better than walking, and I&apos;ll get used to it, but it doesn&apos;t feel that way at the moment.
	</p>
	<p>
		I forget if I mentioned them the other day, but I ran into someone at a booth at the pride festival, and a service they were offering was help in getting on the Oregon Health plan.
		I gave them my email address, and they said they&apos;d contact me later to help me.
		Today, they got in touch, and asked me for several pieces of information.
		Once I sent that, they said I needed to bring by a pay stub as proof of income.
		They&apos;re in Eugene though, so it would&apos;ve taken too long to go today; I&apos;d&apos;ve been late for work.
		I&apos;ll bring it by tomorrow.
	</p>
	<p>
		At work, a coworker asked another coworker to braid their hair for them.
		A third coworker jokingly asked if the second was a hairstylist, and said that they know what people say about hairstylists.
		I wasn&apos;t sure, though I had a suspicion, so I asked what people say about them.
		The third coworker seemed to be trying to walk on eggshells around me though, and didn&apos;t want to say.
		The second, who&apos;s the one that seems to find my gayness funny, came right out and said it: male hairstylists are gay.
		Hoping to get them to relax, I said that maybe I should become a hairstylist then.
		I continued that line of thought a bit, to show it&apos;s really fine.
		I don&apos;t want people on pins and needles around me.
		It&apos;s true that I haven&apos;t properly learned to celebrate my gayness just yet, but I&apos;ve honestly never minded jokes directed at me or jokes about any kind I&apos;ve ever associated with.
		I&apos;m not the type to be easily hurt or offended by others, especially when they don&apos;t actually mean anything by it.
	</p>
	<p>
		My <a href="/a/canary.txt">canary</a> still sings the tune of freedom and transparency.
	</p>
</section>
<section id="dreams">
	<h2>Dream journal</h2>
	<p>
		I dreamed I was on an outing with my mother.
		I don&apos;t remember much, but several key things happened.
		I remember taking notes on an order pad from my workplace to write about them in my journal later, as I thought I was awake at the time.
		The last note I took was about how my mother was hating on us transfolk.
		We&apos;d just come to a group of obvious queerfolk, though the exact nature of their queerness wasn&apos;t known to me.
		One person was male with a beard, but also in a dress.
		One was female, with rainbow pride hair.
		I don&apos;t remember the others now, the dream has faded in my mind too much.
		My mother was complaining about how trans people needed to just act according to their sex and saying gender wasn&apos;t a separate thing to be considered.
		I took it rather personally.
		I felt like if I ever told my mother about my gender (I think she still doesn&apos;t know), she wouldn&apos;t accept it and would still consider me to be of the masculine gender, even though I&apos;m agendered.
	</p>
	<p>
		Someone queer asked to see what I what I was writing.
		Normally, I&apos;m very open with my notes, and I show anyone that asks.
		When I have a note I don&apos;t want misunderstood, I make it cryptic just in case someone does ask.
		My bisexual shift leader is usually the one to ask, if anyone.
		With my mother there though, I was was afraid she&apos;s want to see too, so I denied the request, as some of the notes were about her and because she&apos;s very judgemental.
		A bit later, I found about five Social Security cards in the back of the order pad.
		I was confused, but my mother knew what they were there for.
		Apparently, it was <strong>*her*</strong> order pad and I was borrowing it.
		Why did she have an order pad from my workplace!?
		She started taking the cards out, but I tore my notes out and gave her back the pad.
	</p>
	<p>
		I used to not consider being agendered to be a form of being trandgendered.
		However, I&apos;m certainly not cisgendered.
		That means what I am must be a form of transgendered.
		One day, maybe, I&apos;ll find a subtle way to start the conversation, then explain everything to her.
	</p>
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